


The Mechanic

by CantansAvis



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantansAvis/pseuds/CantansAvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind his everyday facade, behind Iron Man, behind Tony Stark, is the Mechanic. And the Mechanic can patch up not only cars and arc reactors, but superheroes too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hawkeye

Before Iron Man, before the playboy, the genius, the billionaire, the philanthropist, before Tony Stark, there was just Tony, the mechanic.

But everyone, including Tony Stark himself, forgot about "just Tony". But they all kind of knew he was there. Tony built things, lots of things, but that was just Tony. Tony built when he was bored. He fiddled when he was frustrated. Fashioned devices when furious. Made machines when melancholy. Devised when devious, engineered when ecstatic, and constructed when crazy (which was somewhat often).

The mechanic was there, just forgotten. He was needed, but not acknowledged.

Until New York.

* * *

"Hey Stark." A very bold archer leaned over the workbench. The man at said workbench was, however, not mentally there. He was in his work. He was completely immersed. His turbulent emotions exploded with the sparks that scattered at his feet.

"Tony?" Clint waved a hand in front of Tony's face. No response. "Earth to Tony?" Clint, daring and stupid, started waving his hand around whatever Tony was working on - some new fangled gizmo that would take ages to explain to the Captain or Thor.

Clint suppressed a sound of dismay as Tony swatted away the assassin's hand. Tony just hit an assassin. Without blinking. Clint watched Tony continue working for a few moments before promptly slapping the back of his head. "What was that for?" Tony glared at the smug archer.

Clint gently pushed over the thingamabob Tony was working on and placed a white Chinese take-out box and a pair of chopsticks in front of the man. "Pepper says you haven't eaten all day." He glanced at a nearby clock. "It's almost eight." Tony looked at the clock, half surprised and half nonchalant.

"Did you notice the Captain or Banner try to get you to eat earlier?" Tony had thought there had been some super soldier sighing earlier. He also vaguely remembered some doctor babble and someone mumbling, "It'd be easier to just attach an IV to him..."

"Nope." He took the chopsticks and the box and leaned back in the chair. Clint stayed where he was. "What?" Tony mumbled through a mega-mouthful of lo mein.

"Pepper said to make sure you eat all of it." Tony tried to wave him off. He had work to do. And not even the physical limitations of his body could stop him. Clint simply shook his head, sat on the couch, and crossed his arms. Tony raised an eyebrow before giving a humph and the two settled into silence.

Tony was annoyed. He glanced over at his latest project. After a few mental calculations, he decided he had enough time to annoy Clint. He ate slowly and avoided conversation. Clint became bored, tapping his foot, plucking at non-existent pieces of lint on his clothes. Tony watched with devious glee as the edgy marksman's eyes began to droop. When they remained closed for a full minute, he picked through his food and successfully found a large chestnut slice. With the precision of... well, an inventor and engineer, he plucked it from the tangle of greasy noodles and tossed it at Clint.

It bounced off his head and Clint slept on. Tony cursed under his breath.

Two minutes later, Tony watched with interest and concern when Clint started twitching and mumbling, eyes still closed.

Not thirty seconds after that, Clint let loose a short, hoarse scream, a cry of pure terror. His eyes flew open, panic and fear consuming his grey eyes. He seemed to forget where he was, reaching for his bow and an arrow, but found nothing, which only fueled his panic. A thin sheen of sweat shone in the light of the shop. The usually calm and capable assassin was almost at the point of hyperventilation, hands trembling, opening and closing, having the need to grasp something.

Tony set down his half-empty carton. "Clint? Buddy?" Clint swiveled in the direction of the new possible threat. He continued to grope for the stash of weapons that was usually on his person. Finally concluding he had nothing, Clint took an offensive stance, fists up and ready to pummel Tony into one of the grease puddles that stained the floor. He lunged towards the genius, grabbing him by the shirt, his fist just brushing the bristles of Tony's beloved facial hair.

"Whoa, whoa there, Clint. Remember me?" Clint's face twisted in confusion. His grip slackened and Tony remembered how to breathe properly. "It's just me, Tony. I know you want to kill me sometimes, but this time I did absolutely nothing." Tony paused, in thought. "Just don't use your shampoo tonight.

Clint released the man, utterly bewildered. His threats had proved to countless cold-hearted men that they could cry, no matter how often they argued against the fact. But this man just kept talking. Sure, he had trembled a little. But he started talking to him, calling him by his name..

"Tony?" The inventor examined the archer, whose face showed confusion and body showed exhaustion. But there was no longer that primal fear, that threatened stance and look that screamed of a broken man

"You okay now?" Clint did not reply, choosing instead to flop back the couch. He closed eyes and sighed with the age of a man lost to time, the world, and himself. "Clint?" The archer looked at the unusually concerned genius through slitted eyes, his grey eyes saying,  _What do you think?_

Tony sat on the edge of the couch near Clint's head. Clint contemplated pushing him off. Nah, too much effort

"Does, um, this..." Tony awkwardly trailed off.

"Happen often?" Clint finished. Tony nodded. "Yeah. But I'm usually by myself or with Natasha. And before you ask, the SHIELD quacks already diagnosed me. Sometimes I go into some sort of survival mode when I remember..."

"Yeah, that." Tony knew he didn't want to dwell on Loki and his hare-brained scheme

"It doesn't influence my missions." Clint chuckled bitterly. "Hell, sometimes it helps." The sarcastic smile faded. "They don't know how to fix it. Loki's magic really screwed me up. _That time_  really screwed me up." He paused, hesitating to reveal himself. Revealing himself meant vulnerability, vulnerability meant weakness, and weakness meant failure.

Tony had turned to face the archer, knowing that telling the genius all of this was hard. It went against all his instincts, his code, his way of life

"Not even Tasha can do anything," Clint continued, downcast, "All she can do is watch and make sure nothing too bad happens. It's hopeless." On the last word, Tony heard the subtle crack in the assassin's voice. He looked over to the tired man whose eyes had closed in apathy to what his life had become.

"Clint." The archer didn't respond.

"Clint." Tony poked him. Clint swatted his hand away.

"Clint!" Tony dared to shove the assassin, who proceeded to give him a half-hearted glare.

"What?"

"Get up."

"Why?" Just to contradict Tony, Clint sprawled across the couch, "accidentally" pushing Tony off, who landed with an indignant noise

"I said, get up." Tony propped up the limp, sturdily built (as demonstrated by Tony's grunts of effort) archer. Clint gazed up at him, his grey eyes dull as slate.

"It's not hopeless."

"What?"

"Are you having hearing problems? I said, it's not hopeless." Clint stared at him, incredulous.

Tony sighed in his infamous _argh-I'm-surrounded-by-idiots (except maybe for Bruce)_  manner. "It's not hopeless. It's not impossible. I mean, c'mon! Your leader is a super-serum man that came out of a block of ice. Your partner is a beautiful, frightening spy and assassin. And as for your other teammates you have a man stupid but ingenious enough to fly around in a metal suit, a Norse god who's obsessed with Poptarts, and the calmest doctor you could find who can turn into a giant green rage monster."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "With us around, nothing is impossible." Tentatively, Tony wrapped an arm around the archer in a one-arm hug. Clint, rather than flipping him onto the ground, instead rested his head on Tony's shoulder, letting hope flicker in his chest.

Tony thought Clint had fallen asleep when he heard the archer mutter, "Tony, what did you do to my shampoo?"

"Ah, I see you  _don't_  have hearing problems."


	2. Black Widow

"Miss Romanoff." Natasha ignored the vexing voice. She continued to punch one of the two sandbags that Steve hadn't broken yet.

"Miss Romanoff."  _Jab, punch, hook, uppercut. Jab..._

"Miss Romanoff." Natasha added a few kicks to her pattern.

"Miss Roman - oof!" Natasha poked her head from behind the slightly swinging sandbag to find the genius sprawled across the floor, trying to catch his breath. She analyzed him with her penetrating eyes. He wasn't injured. Tony groaned. Well, he wouldn't have to go to the hospital.

"What do you want Tony?" The assassin leaned against the sandbag, maintaining perfect balance.

"Just... wanted... to..." Tony wheezed as he sat up and leaned on his elbows. Natasha contemplated getting him a glass of water. Nah.

"...give you... your updated... bracelets... upped... voltage..." Oh. Well. Natasha grabbed her barely touched water bottle. She handed it to the genius stupid enough to annoy her when she was beating up a punching bag. Tony grabbed it gratefully and sat up, legs crisscrossed like a kindergartener. Natasha resumed her workout.

Tony watched the assassin. He observed the beauty of the human anatomy at work. Her taut muscles worked together to create each thud, each indeterminable dent in the sandbag. Barely a strand of her fiery hair moved as she attacked the inanimate object. It seemed perfect. Except...

Her eyes. They were a shade of green that should be vibrant. Instead they seemed dulled, like a thick, dried mess of brambles. And there was something behind that dull shield. Something burning and broken.

"Why are you so angry?" It seemed an innocent enough thuds grew louder.

"I'm."  _Thud_. "Not."  _Thud_. "Angry." The sandbag fell onto the floor, the sand rattling as it sprawled across the ground.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you call that?"

"A crappy sandbag." Natasha went to grab the last surviving sandbag. "You need to order more sandbags." Her head swiveled toward the billionaire. "Less crappy ones."

Tony placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. "I'll order more sandbags, if..." he drawled. Natasha didn't like that tone.

"If?"

Tony slowly smiled. "If you tell me why you're so angry."

Natasha scowled. "I'm not angry," she hissed, about ready to send Tony to the hospital. She leaned towards him, holding up a fist eager to meet Tony's face.

Tony gave a low whistle. "Now, if that's not angry...  _and_  it looks like someone's not getting their sandbags." He flashed his infamous Stark snark smile. Natasha knew she could probably just ask Pepper to order the sandbags for her. Hell, she could probably order the sandbags herself since she still occasionally acted as Pepper's assistant.

But there was something different about this argument. It wasn't over mission protocol or who got to use the toaster next. It was personal and Tony seemed... concerned? Against her usual instincts, the assassin decided to go along with Stark's game.

"What do you want?"

"To know why you're angry."

Natasha sighed. It had taken her years to trust Clint. Well, he had tried to kill her. But they were so similar; they knew how the world  _really_  worked. There were no happy endings. If a situation seemed hopeless, it probably was. But the illusion needed to be maintained. Clint knew that. And he helped Natasha preserve the illusion. Escapism comes in so many forms.

She looked over at Tony. He was so  _different_. He was so delusioned and yet... he knew. And he fought so hard against it. He didn't maintain the illusion. He tried to fix what was wrong in the first place. And maybe that was why she trusted him.

"Everything was perfect. Until damn Loki came along. He took my partner and messed him up. He entered our world and treated it like his personal playground. He broke everything!" Natasha Romanoff was a skilled spy and assassin. She rarely raised her voice.

Tony observed the woman before him. In most situations concerning women, "observation" was less observing and more ogling. But not Natasha. After his initial ogle of Natalie Rushmore, he could tell she was different. Dangerous. Fearless. Cold. The woman before him was anything but those things. She was vulnerable. Scared. Human.

Natasha avoided eye contact, her head turned towards the broken sandbag. She glanced down at the small tremor in her hands. She was no better than that punching bag. She was flawed, weak. And she could face neither that fact nor the man before her.

"Natasha." Natasha did not move.

"Natasha." She had sat down, bunching her knees into her chest. Now Tony was worried. He moved towards the assassin.

"Natash- ow!" Tony held his cheek, red with Natasha's handprint.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "Reflex."

_At least she didn't snap my neck_. Tony scooted towards her until his knees almost touched her. This was the closest he had been to the assassin without her telling him to shoo (in more explicit terms) or hitting him. He was close enough that he could hear her usually inaudible breathing and just make out the dark bags under her eyes. "Now, don't kill me." Natasha tensed. "And don't cause me any bodily harm. Please," he added. Natasha slightly relaxed, obliging to his request.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tony wrapped around his arms around the best, most broken spy assassin in the Nine Realms.

Natasha didn't know how to react. She had silently promised not to hurt Tony. She wasn't on a mission. No one was dying.

Hugs generally were not given to Black Widows. Death threats and chokeholds, yes. Hugs and other signs of comfort or affection, not so much.

So Natasha let herself fall apart, with only Tony holding her together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal fave of the bunch.


	3. The Hulk

"Mr. Banner, I would like to inform you that Master Stark is once again attempting 'drunk science-ing'," JARVIS told the doctor, who was absorbed in a medical journal.

Bruce groaned. "Again?" He contemplated getting up from the coveted corner of the couch. He knew if he left someone would take his spot. Someone who would be capable of killing, or at least incapacitating, him. Unless it was Steve. Steve would just give him those really sad puppy dog eyes...

"Mr. Banner?" JARVIS interrupted Bruce's train of thought. "He's getting closer to the more volatile materials."

_Argh._  "I'm going, I'm going..." Bruce reluctantly, but quickly, got off the couch and hustled towards the elevator.

"Tony... why do you have pure sodium?" Bruce cautiously approached the allegedly drunk man. A man who was holding a large amount of pure sodium (as denoted by the almost empty jar beside him) over a barrel of water.

"'Cause," Tony mumbled. He looked quite ready to dump the volatile material in. Bruce was worried. Tony was surrounded by other volatile materials, some was just spilled whiskey, others were needed for the creation and maintenance of his innovations. If he dropped that sodium... well, hell might literally break loose.

"Tony, put it back into the jar."

Tony pouted. "Why?" he whined.

Great. He was arguing with Tony in the mental state of a five-year-old. "Because you're going to hurt yourself."

"No I'm not."

"Tony, I'll give you a cookie if you put it away." Bribery usually worked, didn't it?

Tony quickly stored the silvery death threat in jar, cushioned and restrained by the golden oil surrounding it. After clumsily capping the jar, Tony looked eagerly to the doctor. Bruce sighed and waved him to come over.

Tony was definitely drunk, swaying in the rhythm of his alcoholic buzz. He fell onto Bruce, who was expecting it. "Is it chocolate chip?" Tony mumbled, drooling a little on Bruce's shoulder.

"Sure it is. Now let's get back upstairs, okay?" Bruce began leading -more like dragging- the drunken man outside of the workshop.

"Mkay." With that final, brilliant sentiment, Tony fell asleep, leaving the poor doctor to carry him, JARVIS making slightly encouraging, mostly amused remarks the whole way.

Tony woke up the next morning on the couch in the common room. He had a throbbing headache and chocolate smudges on his face (including his forehead) and hands. Tony groaned.  _Ugh. What happened?_

"Good morning sunshine," a mocking voice greeted him. Tony turned to glare at the voice, but his head decided that was a bad idea.

"What happened last night?" Through the haze of the hangover, he figured out the voice belonged to Bruce.

"Oh, you know, the usual. You almost blew up the workshop... JARVIS nagged me to go get you... You're easily bribed with sweets..."

"You'd think by now you would have confiscated all unnecessary volatile materials from me."

"I've tried. You keep stealing them back or ordering more."

"Oh yeah." The pair settled into a content silence. As Tony's headache ebbed, he sat up, lamenting about the effort, and looked over to the scientist at the bar, enjoying a cup of coffee and breakfast ordered by JARVIS.

"You really oughta join me one day," Tony said.

"Hm?" Bruce looked at Tony over the rim of his coffee mug, an eyebrow raised in perplexion.

"In science-ing."

"Tony, 'science' is not a verb. And you tend to be quite drunk when you 'science'."

"I get drunk because it makes things more interesting. And 'science' is totally a verb!"

Bruce contemplated the proposition. He had a few experiments in mind but none of the equipment nor a partner capable in following what exactly he was doing. "Would you be drunk if I joined you?"

"No, probably not. I have a feeling your experiments would probably be interesting enough and less purposefully explosive."

"Purposefully explosive?"

Tony shrugged. "Something's bound to blow up at some point."

Bruce quirked an eyebrow. "Well, I have a few experiments in mind..."

"Great!" Tony regretted yelling; his headache was back. "Wanna come by the workshop later?"

Deciding to placate the puppy-like man, Bruce nodded.

Despite his quiet demeanor about the whole situation, Bruce had arrived to workshop/impromptu lab before Tony. He set up an appropriate work area and gathered supplies.

As the doctor was bringing in a batch of beakers, he bumped into a fashionably late Tony Stark, dropping - and breaking- all of them. However, instead of calmly picking up the broken pieces and calling to rush order more, he stood above the mess, slightly trembling.

"Bruce?" Tony bent down, carefully picking up the larger shards, and looked up at his shorter companion. His eyes were highlighted with green and his face twisted in consternation. "Bruce?" Tony stood up and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. Bruce visibly calmed, breathing heavily as he struggled to regain his composure. "C'mon, you should sit down." Tony led the man to the couch.

"Sorry 'bout that," Bruce muttered, eyes closed in shame and embarrassment.

"About what?" Tony smiled as gently as a snarky scientist could. "Nothing happened. So no problem."

"No problem?" Bruce said. "No problem?" He raised his voice raised with each syllable. "I'm losing it Tony. Ever since Loki,  _the Other Guy has been losing it_. He's going to break out and I just might _let_  him." His fists were curled, he began to tremble slightly once more before suddenly stopping and going limp. "Nothing's right anymore, Tony," he whispered. "Nothing."

"Bruce, nothing's ever been right," Tony said. "We'd all be out of a job if everything was. It's just a matter of dealing with it." He began rubbing Bruce's back in a soothing manner. "And you're not. The Other Guy isn't." With a deep breath, he said, "You  _both_  need to blow off some steam."

"What?" Bruce exclaimed, the green in his eyes even more vibrant than before. "You're joking right?"

"I'll send you off myself. First class." Tony winked. Bruce stayed in incredulous silence.

"Bruce," Tony sighed. "When was the last time you had a vacation? In fact, when was the last time the Other Guy had a break?" Bruce stayed silent, eyes downcast.

"Aha!" Tony smiled. "It's not good to keep everything pent up, Bruce. Just name a place, and I'll send you off." He looked toward the broken beakers. "Your experiments can wait."

Bruce leaned back into the couch. He sighed, not in hopelessness or frustration, but with a sense of contentment.

"Thailand. Thailand seems like a pretty good place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite sure how this chapter turned out. Not my favorite piece of writing... Anyways, pure sodium in water is totally dangerous. So are gummy bears in potassium chlorate. Seriously. Look it up on Youtube. Lots of fiery goodness. ;)


	4. Thor

"Lord Stark?" The Norse god of thunder popped his head into the common room.

"Thor, just call me Tony." The genius kept his eyes the holographic model floating in front of him.

Thor nodded. "Tony, from where can I get the Poptarts?"

By now, Tony was accustomed to the god's addiction to the sugary food. "Did you check the kitchen?"

"Yes, there are none left."

"Under the bar counter?" Tony gestured towards the bar that had once been only for his personal use. It was now more of a candy bar than a regular bar now. Who knew that gods, spies, soldiers, and scientists had such a sweet tooth? Thor usually kept about a dozen boxes of Poptarts underneath the counter.

Thor quickly walked toward the stash, ducking his head beneath the counter. He popped back up with a disappointed, puppy-dog face. "None."

Tony took his eyes off his designs to stare at Thor. Was it possible for someone to consume that many Poptarts in... when did the Captain and Bruce go grocery shopping? Saturday? It was Wednesday morning.

"What about under your bed?" Tony asked. Everyone knew he stashed a few boxes under his bed for late-night snacking.

Thor looked indignant and about to protest the fact but instead quietly said, "None there either."

"Thor! Cap and Bruce cleaned the store out of all the Poptarts; how the hell did you eat so many?"

Like the little kid that the team knew the god was at heart, Thor stared at his shoes and shuffled his feet. "My mind... it has been troublesome. The Poptarts are quite comforting."

Tony looked at Thor. He may be over six feet tall, older than Midgardian civilization, and have insane powers (and relatives), but he really was just like a giant kid. Or maybe a puppy. "Hey, c'mere." Tony motioned for the god to come with one hand and swiped away the holograms with the other. Thor plopped himself on the couch, making the genius bounce with the force.

Tony turned to face the downtrodden god. "What's on your mind?"

"'Tis my brother."

"Loki?" Tony and the rest of the team (well, world) usually "forgot" that Loki was Thor's brother. He was a villain who had to be stopped. They couldn't think of him as anything else.

Thor's blue eyes hardened, icy. "Yes, Loki. My brother. He is my brother," he retorted, bitter. "But no one else seems to think so." The god seemed to deflate. "My world… it is out of balance. Tensions remain in Asgard. And Midgard is just a disaster. All these politics, clashing cultures, new technology… 'tis strange and at times, paradoxical."

Tony gave a sympathetic pat to Thor's shoulder. "Welcome to reality, my friend." Thor looked indignant, irritated even.

"I'm quite acquainted with reality, Lord Stark." Tony restrained a shudder. Thor could be quite terrifying when he wanted to be. Tony noticed the sky darkening outside and a quiet rumble of thunder.

"That's what you thought." Tony, ignoring the cold fear sitting in his gut, tapped Thor's head with a finger. Thor simmered. He contemplated punching the genius. Nope, not good for team dynamics.

"Lemme explain." Thor nodded stiffly. "Even though you're probably older than my entire family line, you're still pretty young. Both physically and mentally. From what Jane's told me, you were like some crazy, deluded frat boy when you first came here."

Thor's head cocked in confusion at the reference. Tony stroked his chin, struggling to come up with a better analogy. "You were like… an arrogant new warrior, swinging his axe everywhere."

The thunder rumbled again. Thor rose and appeared to grow in size as he yelled, "You dare call me a, what you would call, a newb?" Tony wasn't sure whether to laugh or crap his pants. He did neither.

"Whoa there, MC Hammer. I just meant that you had the mentality of one when you first came here. You know, asserting your superiority over everyone else. Insisting that they should follow your orders. Smashing your mug on the ground. Getting astrophysicists drunk. That sort of thing." Tony fiddled with the bands on his wrists, hoping he had fixed up the suit. Not that he thought Thor would hurt him. Well. He eyed the approaching storm outside. Maybe.

Thor considered this new information. He sat back on the couch and the sky began to lighten outside. "Yes, you may say I was like that," he said. With the slightest hint of a grin, he added, "Selvig got himself drunk. Not me."

Tony gave a (hopefully) subtle sigh of relief. Thor looked at him, once again confused. "I would not harm you, Lord Stark." Hm. Not so subtle.

"Tony, just call me- you know what? Never mind." It was probably futile to try to break the speech patterns of a Norse god. Maybe he should contact some sort of linguistics expert…

"Lord Star- Tony?" Thor waved his huge hand in front of the zoning billionaire.

"Hm? Oh. Yeah. Anyway, you were pretty inexperienced your first time here, right?" Thor nodded.

"And you pretty much spent your entire life in Asgard eating, drinking, hunting, and fighting, correct?" Thor opened his mouth as if to protest, thought better of it, and nodded again.

"So you see? You've lived in this kind of sheltered, deluded world, thinking everything could easily be solved. But now you're starting to realize that it's different. Take my suit, for example." Thor resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He and the rest of the team knew Tony was just  _slightly obsessed_  with his suits.

"Looks kinda of simplistic at first right? Just a bunch of metal thrown together to resemble some sort of person?" Thor nodded. "But after awhile, you (or the enemy) realizes it's a bit more complex. Especially when the thrusters kick in, or the missiles fly out, or the lasers almost hit them, or the…"

Thor let the genius trail on and looked out the window, into the city. The bikers, the walkers, the drivers, the joggers, the business people, the homeless, the young, the old… So many people, so many lives, so separate, yet so intertwined. It could make anybody's head just spin with the thought, the possibilities. Thor decided to listen to Tony again.

"...or the disco ball pops out. All of that crap in a little tin suit. Way more complex than it appears. Are you getting my point here, buddy?" Thor nodded, adding Tony's wisdom to his ever-expanding trove of knowledge to remember.

"I have two questions, if I can ask them."

Tony nodded, hoping he was able to help him.

"First, can we acquire more Poptarts?"

Tony laughed. Thor smiled, glad to hear the sound. "Of course, muscle man. We can head out this afternoon."

"Great! And two, what is a 'disco ball'?" Tony laughed again and Thor allowed himself to sink into the sound, happy that at least some things  _were_  simple.


	5. Captain America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Captain Angsty lies ahead. (Though I must say, I liked this chapter. And, well, I've been having a rough week.)

Steve stopped sketching. The stick of charcoal in his hand paused as he stared at what he had drawn absentmindedly. It dropped to the white carpet, soot scattering between the threads.

Steve was usually careful with his art supplies. Not even Tony could complain as Steve picked up every eraser bit, scrubbed every spot of paint that had fallen, and dusted all the pencil and charcoal dust away. But now he didn't really care.

He stared at the unseeing eyes, the porcelain smiles. He shook his head, locks falling uncharacteristically to his face. It wasn't them. It wasn't them. They were all dead. All of them. And he was here. In a skyscraper with talking walls and ceilings and moody household appliances and strangely adorable robots and a crazy man who liked to fly around in a metal suit and, and…

"Steve!" Tony found the American hero tearing apart his sketchbook, ripping out and shredding page after page. Captain Rogers didn't pause at the cry. He could clean up the mess later.

Steve seemed to go about it methodically, glancing at his latest victim, appearing to contemplate its fate. But all pages shared the same verdict: death by shredding and desecration by crumpling.

The soldier still didn't stop when Tony approached him, wading through the rising sea of discombobulated sketches; an eye here, a stem of a flower there, a piece of Dummy by his left foot. The genius placed a hand, gentle but firm, on Steve's shoulder. Steve hands still refused to stop, though they were peppered with paper cuts, adding shades of red to the sea of black and white. He did, however, slow down his destruction. Now he simply sat in the pile of paper, crumpling the remaining shreds of paper in his hands, black and red. The agony and rage that electrified his blue eyes faded and left the once brilliant orbs dull, resigned. Captain America, Steve Rogers, was a drowning man who had accepted his fate. He seemed to sink deeper into the sea he had created.

For once, Tony didn't say a word. His snark remained canned. His sarcasm was at bay and his joking smile receded. Instead he brushed away some papers and sat next to Steve. He carefully pried the crumpled papers from Steve's hands.

Tony unfolded and smoothed out the paper, revealing about a third of a face. The man sketched had warm, laughing eyes. In fact, he appeared to be be in the middle of a good guffaw, his hearty mustache seeming to move with the apparent vibrations. Tony smiled a little. And the iceman next to him seemed to thaw a bit as well.

"That's Dum dum. Dum dum Dugan," Steve said quietly. Tony cleared out a space in front of him, laid down the sketch, and plucked another piece of paper from the pile. Like with the last paper, he unfolded and smoothed the piece.

"That's Jacques. Dernier." Tony laid down the torn paper next to the last. And so the process continued.

"That's Butterfingers."

"That's Nat. She's about to dump a tub of Cool Whip on Clint's face."

"That's Colonel Phillips."

"That's Pepper. She's about to scold you for staying up so late and not eating. Again."

"That's Clint about to take revenge on Natasha."

Tony didn't even blink as Steve said, "That's Howard. Your dad." Steve, unlike Tony apparently, was bothered and motioned for Tony to stop. He also knew that the next sketch Tony held in his hands would destroy him. That lost dance would make him lose  _everything_.

Tony set aside the papers. He mimicked Steve's position, bringing his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "You wanna tell me what's up, buttercup?" he asked, looking towards the soldier.

Steve gave a half-hearted smirk. He looked at the genius and Tony almost shuddered. His usual pale blue eyes were dark, stormy. Menacing.

"How about seventy years of lost time? How about the fact I have lost more than I could have ever imagined? How about the fact that  _I don't want to be here_?" Steve didn't yell. He didn't make any faces, any movements. But Tony felt like Steve had screamed; Steve had cried; Steve had chucked the leather couch out the window.

And Tony knew that "here" didn't mean Stark Towers.

He turned to face the soldier who was now just staring out at the city, the world, that had left him behind and spinning. "Steve." The man made no reply. "Rogers. Captain. Cap. Stevie. Stevie. Bo-bevie. Banana fana fo-fevie. Fee-fi-mo mevie…"

"What?" Steve was bitter. Tony represented everything he had missed. Now here he was, going off on that name game thing that had apparently occurred when he had been frozen for about twenty years.

"Look at me." Steve resisted. Then Tony started to  _poke_  him. Incessantly.

"Goddammit, Stark. What do you want?" Steve fiercely turned to face the inventor who was in a semi-state of shock and thinking,  _ohmygodCaptainAmericasworeatmethisisserious_.

With a completely calm and hopefully not panicky face, Tony said, "For you to come home."

Steve shot him a glare that screamed,  _What the hell are you talking about Stark?_  (Angry Steve apparently had a potty mouth.)

Before the soldier could open his mouth, Tony interrupted, "Hold your horses, Captain." Steve pressed his lips together into a tight line, straight and pale. There was a lot of anger and other emotions that Tony usually wouldn't poke with a ten- _yard_  stick. He really hoped that the Steve's dam (i.e. his tight-lipped-ness) would hold up. "You know the speech. 'I'm sorry for your loss.' 'Times have changed, Captain.' Blah blah blah. You hate it. And that means the rest of us hate it too." Steve quirked an eyebrow, his anger ebbing and confusion surging.

"We're  _your_  team, Captain. We may all technically be under SHIELD, but in the end and where it counts, we're yours. And we're here to help you. Help you adjust." Steve's jaw tightened. "No," Tony said, noticing the anger returning, "not like SHIELD's been trying to help you. We're not going to leave you to fend for yourself and adapt. We're not going to give you lessons and talk to you like you're five. We're here _if you need us_. For anything."

Tony's usually flitting eyes bored into his Captain's. "And I do mean anything."

He leaned back, the papers crunching underneath his weight. "You have an amazing doctor that also happens to be a green giant that enjoys smashing anything you command it to. You have not one, but two, spy assassins. Lord knows what you can do with them. You have a Norse god for crying out loud!" Tony stared at the soldier, who looked more confused than angry.

"And you have me, the humblest genius of the century." Steve gave him a pointed look. "What? If I can set up Internet access in  _Asgard_ , I have to be a genius. It's a fact of life." Steve shrugged, accepting Tony's statement.

"And Steve. You haven't lost anything. Yes, your friends are gone. But you haven't lost them. They're all here." Tony poked Steve's chest and shrugged. "Yeah, I know that sounds cheesy. But it's true."

He picked up the paper that Steve had been dreading. "And this dance isn't lost." Tony unfolded the sketch of the captain twirling around a young lady. Peggy. "Not yet. Your gal may be gone from this earth Cap…" Tony noticed how shiny Steve's eyes looked.  _Oh crap. I have a crying super soldier._

"Um, I mean, uh…" Tony lightly smacked himself on the head. "Crap, Thor would be so much better at explaining these other-worldly things..."

Steve shook his head, teardrops landing on paper, charcoal, and pencil; rivers of black and silver making their way toward the carpet.

"No, Tony. It's fine." Steve scooted closer to the shorter man. "Everything's fine now." With Steve's eyes still brimming with tears, magnifying his age and despair, Tony forgot his usual facade and embraced the soldier, the American hero, who had been drowning in all that he loved, in all that he knew. That is, until the lighthouse, trimmed in red and gold, shined its blue light on him, and brought him to peace.


	6. Iron Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, there is a bit of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. Writing at three in the morning. Yup. That makes for totally coherent language.
> 
> I also may have listened to "This is War" by 30 Seconds to Mars repeatedly, via the fan videos of various fandoms.

Tony Stark is many things. He's a genius, a billionaire, a playboy, a philanthropist. He is a mechanic, an inventor, an engineer. He's Iron Man. He's an ass. And above all, Tony Stark is a hypocrite.

* * *

"We are not soldiers!"

The shout echoes in the silence, dense with death. Tony, not Stark, not Iron Man, glares at Captain Steve Rogers, whom he's not sure he wants to punch or kick or cling to when he starts crying.

Months later, the shout still echoes.

_This is war._

No, no it's not.

Sparks fly across the grease-stained floor. Tony's bent across mark… eleven? Twelve? Anyway, it need a few adjustments, maybe just… yeah, there, wait, no, crap, it was supposed to go  _there_...

And Tony once more happily zones out. Until he does eventually mellow out, eyes seeing but not actually seeing, hands moving automatically. Then he falls back, backwards, through his mind, through time.

_This is war._

Blue. So much blue. Then black and grey and dust. Metal creaking, metal cracking, metal melting, smoldering. The screams. The cries.

_This is war._

A team falling apart, staying together, held by cracks and shards.

The man with a plan having no plan at all. The hawk falling. The calm fading. The strong faltering. The woman, hardened by years of tragedy, found fear once more.

_This is war._

Dust. Dust and rubble. Fine, like sand. Sand from long ago. Filling his lungs, coating his skin, stinging, rubbing, flowing.

_This._

His face. Twisted in pain. But no fear. No, just ready.

_Is._

Is he ready?

_War._

Blue sky. A blue with hope, with promise. Not dark, not threatening. He looks back at the face, still. At peace.

Yeah.

He's ready.

"...Tony?"

Black. He remembered black and a thousand, no, a million, lights, bright, cold.

"Tony."

Then falling. The air disappearing. Breathing but not actually breathing. Fading.

"Tony!"

* * *

Tony wakes up on the living room couch. He looks around blearily. When was the last time he was here? Wait, when was the last time he was out of the workshop?

Tony attempts to get off the couch. He groans, his head exploding like the worst hangover ever. "Yeah, wouldn't try that if I were you." Tony could just hear the little grin in Natasha's voice. He puts a hand to his head. There's a large bump, sensitive to the touch. He hisses in pain.

He feels a weight flop down beside him. Thor hands him a bag of frozen peas. "I have been told of the healing abilities of the icy pods." Tony hums in approval as the chill does it work.

"So? What happened down there?"

"Augh!" Tony practically jumps out of his seat and clings to Thor (he's the god of thunder, when freaked out, it's a natural instinct). Clint is hanging from the ceiling, trying not to laugh and fall down. When did those rafters get there?

"Tony?" Clint waves a hand in front of the genius. "What happened?"

"What? Oh, nothing." Clint raises (or was it lowered? The man  _was_  upside-down) an eyebrow.

Tony hears a sigh from behind the archer. He resists the urge to push Clint to the side and watch him swing like a pendulum and simply moves (while also gracefully climbing off of Thor). He sees Bruce sitting on the arm of the love-seat (Wow, when did he order that? Wait, JARVIS probably did. Why did everyone insist on furniture?).

Once he sees Tony and his  _psh-I'm-totally-being-nonchalant_  face, Bruce says, "Tony that wasn't nothing." Before Tony could say another word, Bruce continues, "You blacked out."

Tony shrugs. Bruce leans slight forward, knowing but reluctant to accept the truth of the situation. "When was the last time you slept?"

Another shrug before saying, "Er… when did I black out?"

"Tony!" The said man leans back into the couch. The silence feels heavy, like that day so long ago…

"Stop." Tony, shakes his head (yeah, ow, really shouldn't do that) and turns toward the voice, bewildered. Steve is leaning on the bar island, head down, Natasha sitting on the counter. Steve doesn't look at him. He raises his head slightly, still staring at the floor as he says, "And don't think you don't know what I mean."

Tony cocks his head, like a curious little puppy. Steve lets out a somewhat sad, pitiful sigh, a simple, short huff. But to Tony, it's a tornado, pulling him in, threatening to rip him apart.

"You do know what I mean. Stop remembering." There it was. That feeling of anger, of sadness, of _exhaustion_. Steve, the damn supersoldier that he is, senses the change in emotion. "I don't mean that you should forget. Just that you shouldn't remember." Everyone looks at him funny.

"I mean -" Steve waves his hands, trying to explain, to conjure up the words. "I mean that you should take a breather?" He ends on a question, not quite sure how to explain it.

He looks towards his teammates. Natasha and Clint seem to have some understanding. They have since the beginning. But like him, they just can't find the right words. Thor looks somewhat perplexed (but that wasn't unusual), but seems to get the gist. Bruce looks like he's still trying to piece together he just said. And Tony just looks… mad.

"A breather? That's it?" The billionaire gets off the couch and storms over to the taller man and stabs him in the chest with a finger. "How can I take a breather?  _Because it never ends._ " The screams. The lack of air. The light in _his_  eyes dying...

His fiery eyes are doused, the mist taking over. His hand falls limp to his side. "It never ends," he whispers. He turns and sinks to the floor, leaning against the bar island. He gently sets the peas aside and places his head in his hands, curling up, like those little roly-poly bugs that he used to poke in the park when he was a kid.

The team exchange looks when the first sob cracks the silence. Steve sits next to Tony and rubs his back with one hand, humming some long ago tune. Natasha lithely jumps off the counter and sits on Tony's other side, leaning against him. Clint flips right-side-up and sits closely in front of the trio, Bruce and Thor following.

And so the Avengers sit.

But not in silence. With the thrum of life singing through the windows, Steve humming along, and Tony, the mechanic who can fix everything besides himself, crying. Not exactly out of sadness. More like exhaustion. Overwhelmed. Frustration. Anger. No, not sadness at all.

Tony has his team. And they've got him.

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the support!


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